Quiet as the Grave
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: "The Lich King's plague of undeath has spread through the Capital City and into the outskirts of Lordaeron. Shocked and disheartened by the loss of their beloved king, the forces of Lordaeron were scattered by the ravenous undead warriors. Now, Lordaeron is but a shadow of its former glory."


**Quiet as the Grave**

Autumn felt unnaturally cold this year, Uther reflected.

It might have been his imagination, but equally, it might not have been. There was a chill in the air, and already the first signs of snow. A bitter wind blew from the north, and it cut through his armour, his tunic, and even his flesh. If he was right, if winter had wormed its way into autumn, he had no idea how Lordaeron would survive. Or, worse, the kingdom would survive, and its people wouldn't. Because one of their own, one of _his _own, had killed King Terenas a month ago, and by the letter of the law if not the spirit, Arthas Menethil was the rightful heir to the kingdom.

Or it _was _his imagination, and autumn was no colder than usual. But after Hearthglen, after Stratholme, after the capital…if a chill had entered his bones after what he'd seen, after what he'd failed to stop, then he couldn't blame himself. Self-pity was an indulgence frowned upon by the Knights of the Silver Hand, and while he tried to keep it at bay, it was becoming increasingly hard to do. With every hour, his heart grew colder. With every day, the winds of winter came closer. With every week, he saw more signs of the death and despair that had taken Lordaeron. And, more than anything else, he could see it in the eyes of his men. Not any grand company, just a scattered entourage of survivours from the living's war against the dead. Men stumbling forward, sagging under the weight of their armour. Men hobbling on crutches, men missing arms, men barely able to hold their banners aloft. Men who looked ready to drop dead, and men whose fear and despair eclipsed even what he'd seen in the darkest days of the Second War.

Men who'd still refused to ride his horse and let him walk. And thus, reluctantly, Uther had remained mounted. Trying to remain as a shining paragon of the Light that all paladins were meant to be. Leading the weary and wounded down the King's Road to the east. Away from the capital. To where the sun rose over Azeroth. To some kind of "promised land," whatever and wherever it might be.

"Uther."

Promised land. If he recalled his history correctly, some of the people who'd migrated south toe Stormwind had believed in a "promised land" as well. Stormwind, his home, now so far away from Lordaeron. What had befallen the Kingdom of the South had now afflicted the Kingdom of the North, only-

"Uther!"

He snapped out of his thoughts and looked at the knight who'd brought his horse up beside him. Looking at him with aggravation, if not outright contempt.

"Interrupting your daydream?" the knight asked.

Uther gave a hollow laugh. "Oh to dream, Sir Silas. To take sleep and be undisturbed by nightmare." Silas remained silent, so he quickly added, "but no. You weren't interrupting."

"Good. Because I think we should rest." He nodded back towards the column. "The men are half dead. If they don't get a reprieve, they'll be all dead. And if the Scourge attack, they're going to be _undead_."

Uther looked back as well. He couldn't fault the men their exhaustion. They'd lost their king. They'd lost their land. They'd marched for days, hounded by roaming Scourge bands and even bandits. Never a major engagement, but each skirmish had thinned their numbers slightly. But that aside…

"No," Uther said. He looked back at Silas. "We keep on to Greenwood. We get there, we get rest, we get shelter, we get food and lodging."

"We don't even know if the village is still standing."

"We don't. But-"

"Have you kept your eyes closed, Sir Uther? Have you failed to count any many villages we've passed by along the way? How many of them were left standing? How many of them didn't have the walking dead shamble out to meet us? Sir Flanders hasn't even returned from when you sent him ahead."

Uther said nothing. Indeed, he'd lost count of the number of destroyed towns they'd passed by or on occasion, passed through. Sights that he wasn't unaccustomed to, having fought the Horde in two wars prior. But the villages here had been macabre in their own way. The orcs had often left the mutilated bodies of their victims in place, strung up, or with their heads on spikes. The Scourge, on the other hand, employed no such 'artistry.' The dead were the dead. The dead were a resource. Bodies weren't put on display for the living, they were used against them.

And, Uther reflected, the same thing might have happened to Greenwood. Because while the largest town in this province, Flanders had set out hours ago, and had yet to return. And even a town with walls and a gate could still fall. This being a world where Stratholme was in ruins, the capital was overrun, and Andorhal torched to the ground.

"You know I'm right," Silas murmured. "And if you think I'm wrong, remember how wrong you were about Prince Arthas."

Even thought it was beneath him, Uther couldn't help but rise to the bait. "That was uncalled for."

"A man kills his father and betrays his people? That is what's uncalled for, Sir Uther." He nodded back at the column. "Those men, losing their king and their homes? That's uncalled for. Lots of things are uncalled for, that doesn't mean they're not true."

Uther remained silent. Truth. Truth was, he'd instructed Prince Arthas as a knight of the silver hand. Truth was, he'd turned tail at Stratholme, unwilling to take part in slaughter, but not doing anything himself to prevent it. Truth was, even if he hadn't killed King Terenas or put the sword in the prince's hands, he could not absolve himself of blame either. And it was clear that even if the men in this column looked up to him, those who had horses, those who could look him in the eye, weren't so keen.

"Fine," Uther said. "We'll make camp at the Spire of the North. It should be only fifteen minutes' march away."

"At our rate?" Silas glanced back at the column. "More like thirty."

Uther remained silent, unable to contest the point.

* * *

As it was, it took twenty-five minutes by Uther's estimate. When he'd told the men that they'd rest under the Spire, some had been reinvigorated. Key word being "some," others wanting to press on to Greenwood. But Sir Flanders had yet to return, and Uther knew he had to account for the possibility that the worst had happened. And, as he led his men to the base of the spire, he also had to account for the possibility that this might be a mistake in more ways than one.

The Spire was a monument to those who had given their lives in the Second War. It was surrounded by a fence, and it had a list of names inscribed on its surface. Of course, it couldn't account for every man who'd fought for king and country in that conflict, but for this section of the Northlands, situated east from the capital and west from the border between Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas? That, the architect had managed. Watching his men sprawl out at the spire's base, Uther wondered if they were thinking what he was. That they were in a Third War. And that this time, there might not be any architects left to honour the dead. Hell, there might be no-one left, period. And he also wondered if any of them had noticed the graveyard that was adjacent to the spire, where the bodies of those who could be reclaimed had been interred in the cold earth.

Certainly he'd considered it. And looking at Silas, seated on the ground, sharpening his sword and avoiding the paladin's gaze, Uther didn't doubt that the knight had considered it as well. He walked over.

"We should leave soon."

Silas said nothing, continuing to use his whetstone.

"Silas, you're aware that we're ten feet away from a depository of a hundred bodies."

The knight grunted.

"Silas, you-"

"You said we should come to the Spire." Silas rested his sword on the ground and met Uther's gaze. "Don't seek to put this on me."

"I'm not doing anything of the kind, Sir Silas. But as far as rest goes, that was your idea."

"An idea that the men have taken up with enthusiasm." He nodded towards the footmen, most of them lying on the grass, with only a few in conversation or sharpening their own blades. "Besides," he added. "I'm not sure if your judgement counts for much these days."

Uther frowned. "And yours does?"

Silas glared at him.

"How many wars have you fought in?" Uther asked. "Because from what I understand, you received your knighthood only three years prior."

Silas, still glaring, looked aside and murmured, "two, actually."

"Two." Uther repeated.

"You think I was idle? Bandits. Gnolls. Trolls. Rogue orcs. Even those murloc creatures. I've fought for the kingdom. I've killed. I'll do it until the day I die."

"Which may be sooner than even of us know," Uther said. "But as someone who's fought in actual wars, perhaps you should pay attention to my judgement."

Silas snorted and got to his feet, sheathing his sword. "Your apprentice killed his father, Sir Uther. You've led us down an empty road, and as far as I'm aware, you don't have a plan beyond finding shelter. You've vouched for the Alliance, but Quel'Thalas and Gilneas have closed their borders. You urged restraint for the orcs, and the internment camps were overrun anyway. So, yes. I'm going to question your judgement. Age is no guarantee of wisdom old man, and it's a new world." He nodded toward the men. "Some might say it's the end of the world."

Uther said nothing. In part because of what Silas had said. In part because of what the Blackrock orc had told him months ago. That the hour of doom was approaching. Of tales of a prophet going from kingdom to kingdom, ranting about demons and the end of the world. Of ancient prophecies, and the Reign of Chaos that madmen had claimed would follow the coming of flame from the sky. So far, the sky hadn't rained fire. But it felt like the End Times regardless.

"Anyway," Silas continued. "We don't have to stay long. Whatever Flanders is doing, we…" He trailed off, as Uther held up a hand. A hand that pointed beyond the knight, the graveyard beyond. To the figure in dark robes that had dismounted from a horse and was now wandering among the gravestones,.

The paladin and the knight exchanged a look of understanding. Silas drew out his sword, while Uther unslung his hammer. The two headed over, moving as quickly and quietly as their armour would allow. It didn't take long for them to come close to the figure, standing among the gravestones. It took even shorter for the stench of rotting flesh to reach Uther's nose, emanating from both the mount and the man in black. The man who looked at the two men, staring at them through sallow eyes.

"More fools come to die?" he whispered.

Silas snorted. "Said the fool to the fools." He looked around. "Don't see your corpses, little man."

The man chuckled. "The corpses are beneath the ground." He took out a vial of green liquid from his robes. "The dead feed the ground. This will feed the dead. And when they awake, they will be hungry."

Uther and Silas looked at each other. The man wasn't a necromancer. But if he was speaking truth, that didn't hide the danger he and his magic represented.

"What is your name?" Uther asked.

The man blinked, as if unable to comprehend the question.

"Your name," Uther repeated.

"Uther, what the hell are you doing?" Silas whispered.

"You are still among the living." Uther hung his hammer over his back and slowly walked to the man, his hands raised. "Blood flows in your veins, as much as ours. You are a citizen of Lordaeron."

"Lordaeron," the man hissed. "A dead kingdom with a new king, who will lead the Cult of the Damned into paradise."

"Paradise," Uther whispered. He held his hands out over the empty landscape. To the brown grass and the brown trees, all under an empty blue sky. "Is this paradise? Is this what you sought?"

"It is what the Lich King seeks. It is what Kel'Thuzad promised. A paradise for the faithful, free from gods and kings and tyranny. Where death is life, and death is everlasting."

"And at what cost?" Uther asked. He took another step towards the man. "Kel'Thuzad is dead. Your Lich King is nowhere to be seen. And this death around us? Is that your path to paradise?"

The man said nothing. But in his eyes, Uther saw something. A flicker. A spark of humanity, no matter how dim. A spark he'd seen even among the orcs of the Second War, as death took them. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached out for the vial the man was carrying…

"To hell with this."

And yelled as Silas ran his sword through the acolyte's stomach. The man fell down to the ground, blood pouring out of his stomach. And what likewise fell to the ground was the vial, shattering as soon as it hit the ground. The green liquid began seeping out, and just as quickly, began to enter the soil.

"Silas," Uther whispered. He looked at the knight. "What did you just do?"

Silas glared at him. "Your pet prince betrays the king, and now you break bread with traitors. I did what any loyal subject would have."

Uther tried to respond, but didn't get the chance. The acolyte, eyes wide, but his flesh disintegrating, grabbed his leg, letting out an inhuman rasp. And as simple as it was to bring his hammer down and crush the wretch's skull, the skeletons that were now crawling out of the ground, staring at them through empty eyes? Far less simple.

"Gods help us," Silas murmured.

Far less simple, as to not be simple at all. The knight and paladin began backing away as the skeletons crawled their way up. All wore full-plate armour – armour they'd worn in life, and armour they'd worn in death. Some of them carried swords. And while they moved slowly to the two living men, Uther knew that wasn't the point. A hundred dead men had rested here. Even if the living could escape them, that was a hundred skeletons to join a force that numbered in the tens of thousands. A drop in the bucket, but a drop that could drown what was left of the living.

"For what it's worth," Silas said, as they continued to back away, "you can call me a fool."

Uther looked back at the Spire. The footmen had noticed what was going on. But none were moving. Perhaps too tired. Perhaps waiting for orders. Perhaps torn between the competing urges of fleeing and fighting. They numbered around thirty. They were outnumbered three to one, and they were exhausted. Uther knew that he and Silas could flee with ease, even without their mounts. But the men, especially the wounded? Not so much.

"Go," Uther said.

"What?"

"Go," Uther repeated. He tapped a book slung to his belt, and let out a quiet prayer to the Light. "Lead the men to Greenwood. I'll stay behind."

"Uther, there's a hundred of them. I don't care about your damn Light, even you can't triumph there."

"Perhaps not." He looked at Silas. "But I turned away at Stratholme. I turned, and Arthas marched to damnation. And by the Light, by Lordaeron, by all mankind, I will not turn away now."

"Uther, that-"

"Go." Uther uttered a prayer to the Light, and a barrier of golden energy surrounded him. "Lead the men on. Go, and remember this day. For good and ill both." He took a breath, and after one last glance at Silas, charged in."

The skeletons hammered away at the shield of light that surrounded him to no avail. One after another, Uther smashed their bodies. Their armour protected them, but even so, he managed to shatter their bones. Even though he knew that the protection the Light afforded him could not last forever. The shield would fall, and in turn, so would he. Numbers would overwhelm even the most faithful in the end. And yet…he was not afraid. Not even now. The Light was with him. The Light would take him. The Light would judge his deeds good and ill, foul and fair. Arthas might live with dishonour, but he would die with dignity.

He would, in time. But not now. Not today. Not as he heard a yell and saw Silas riding his horse, at the head of what was left of their company. How, as the Light gave way, steel met bone.

"Lordaeron! Lordaeron!" they cried.

Uther wiped away sweat – or a tear, he could not say – and uttered thanks. Not to the Light, but to the men around him. "For Lordaeron! For the king! For the Alliance!"

The men charged into the skeletons. A new generation of warriors fighting an older one. Soldiers who'd given their lives for this land, and been risen with unholy magics. Wielding the Light, Uther smote them. Wielding the Light, Uther healed the wounds of his followers. With light, steel, faith, and fury, the living destroyed the dead. One victory in a losing war. But a victory nonetheless. Victory that, after a mere five minutes, was left to the victors in silence. Standing by the corpses of the dead.

Standing as quiet as the grave.

* * *

It was night when Sir Flanders reached them. The few. The last few. The band of brothers. It was Flanders who, when asked about Greenwood, who shook his head. The village had fallen. The Scourge had attacked moments after he'd arrived. He knew of villages further along the King's Road that still held out, of remnants of the Alliance Army that they might link up with, but they'd have to take a detour to make it. And, worst of all, rumours of provinces to the west. Of a reinvigorated Cult of the Damned. Of rumours that Prince Arthas had been sighted. Fighting alongside the dead. Conversing with a creature of claw and fang and wings. Whispers of a demon.

Uther listened in silence. Then, with ashen eye and hollow words, uttered, "we set off at first light."

No-one objected. No-one could. All still as quiet as the grave.

Under a twilight autumn sky, with a wind that blew from the north, ever colder.


End file.
